


Stay? aka Coming Clean

by Kittycrackers (Calacious)



Category: General Hospital
Genre: Angst, Bathing, Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Shampooing, Shower Sex, Smut, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Kittycrackers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spinelli goes to a bar to lick his wounds. Jason brings him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay? aka Coming Clean

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit is being made through writing this.
> 
> I could have sworn that I posted this on ff, but can't find it at all...it was in my doc folder though, and I thought I'd post it here. I believe it was part of something that I called, at least in my head, the Couch of the Month Club. I think a fellow writer had made an addition to it as well. Perhaps neither of us got to posting the stories, or maybe they just up and disappeared. Anyway, I am rambling, and doubting that anyone will actually read this. :P

Spinelli'd had a little too much to drink, but he wasn't about to admit that to anyone, especially not the man he still worshipped as a mentor, not that his mentor was currently at the bar with him or anything like that. The man would never have to know about his imbibing, and Spinelli was going to make sure that he didn’t find out about it. 

Jason Morgan, Stone Cold, was a man who frowned on excess of anything, and Spinelli knew that, if the man could see him right now, he'd be sorely disappointed in him. 

"Well, we'll just have to make sure Stone Cold doesn't see us then," he said to himself, hiccoughing, and then he grimaced and rubbed at his chest. 

"Why is it that hiccoughs hurt?" he asked, turning to look at the man who sat on the barstool next to him. 

The man looked at him strangely, like he'd grown two heads or something, and then shrugged. 

"Dunno," he responded, speaking into his glass of whiskey. 

Spinelli didn't have to be drinking the swirling amber liquid to know what it was, he could smell it from where he sat. The pungent odor seemed to emanate from the man's pores, and he wondered if anyone could smell the gin that he'd been drinking. If he reeked of pine needles. 

He sniffed himself out of curiosity, and then wrinkled his nose. He smelled of day old clothes, sweat and cigarette smoke, courtesy of his latest stakeout. Which was incidentally why he was sitting in a bar getting almost drunk. He hated cases where he was asked to find evidence that a wife or husband was cheating on the person he or she had married or was engaged to marry. 

"Marriage should be 'til death do us part," he said solemnly, lifting his nearly empty drink and clinking it against an imaginary glass. 

"Aye," agreed the man next to him, "I'll drink to that." 

And he signaled the bartender for another round for him and Spinelli. 

"My wife cheated on me," he said by way of explanation. 

Spinelli blushed, feeling embarrassed because he didn't have any real, first-hand experience in the matter (Maxie had never been his wife), but he toasted the man's, "To the sanctity of marriage," anyway, thinking specifically of Jason and Sam and how Detective McBane had come between them. 

He wished that there was something more he could do for Jason, other than hold his punching bag. His side was still aching from their workout the other day. It was the most time he’d spent with Jason in months, and he’d screwed it up by not being able to properly hold the punching bag, or hit it either.

He knew that Jason hadn't meant to hit him, that the man had thought he was still hitting the bag, but he'd be a fool if he attempted to spot the man again. That was something better left to those who knew what they were doing. Not people like him who didn't even know how to properly form a fist. 

He sighed and peered into his glass. The gin swirled, mixing with the tonic. 

If only I was stronger , he thought,  then I could be the friend that Stone Cold needs right now. Instead, I'm just some loser at a bar, basking in my relative anonymity. 

"You hav'n another?" his bar buddy asked, and Spinelli grimaced as he drank the gin and tonic in one gulp. 

But, he grinned and nodded, letting his new friend buy him another drink, and then another after that. It wasn't until bar close that Spinelli realized he didn't even know his benefactor's name, but when he asked, either his words were too slurred for the man to understand, or the man was far too gone to understand him. 

It didn't matter either way because Spinelli was on top of the world and nothing, not even thinking about the kind of pain his best friend was in right now because of the unfaithfulness of his wife, could take that away from him. Nothing. Except for the fact that it was now three in the morning and he couldn't remember where he'd parked his car, and he was much too drunk to drive in any case. And, well, he didn't really have anywhere to go to other than his office. 

The office couch was okay. It had been serving as his makeshift bed ever since he'd been kicked out by Maxie, but he was tired of sleeping on it, and he blamed it for the painful kinks in his back that never seemed to go away. 

"One foot in front of the other," he sang, stumbling a little as he accidentally walked off the edge of the sidewalk and into the empty street. 

He narrowly missed walking into a parked car, but not setting off its over-sensitive alarm. He scowled at the offensive car, and kicked its tire as he walked past it. He almost landed on his ass. 

"Stupid car alarm," he muttered, covering his ears with his hands. He stumbled his way back onto the sidewalk and relative safety, tripping over the curb. He would've landed on his face, but someone caught him just in time. 

"Thank you kind sir," he said, and the words sounded slurred even to his own ears. 

His eyes didn't seem to want to cooperate any better than his mouth did. Instead of giving him a clear picture of his rescuer, they contrived to make him see multiple incarnations of the man. He couldn't get a clear lock on the man's identity, but didn't resist being pulled along the sidewalk and being stuffed into the passenger seat of a large vehicle. 

His mind told him that he should be wary, that getting into a car with a man that he did not know was a very bad idea, especially considering that he was drunk. But, his body was telling him something different, and he sagged against the car door, pressing his alcohol warmed cheek to the cool glass. He had to close his eyes to keep from getting sick as the buildings and street signs blurred past him. 

The man said not a word, and Spinelli found talking to be too much of an effort. He was beginning to feel the tiring effects of the alcohol on his system, the way it dulled his brain and made his body's natural reactions slower, or, in some cases, like being manhandled out of the vehicle and forced to march up countless stairs, nonexistent. 

He seemed to have zero sense of self-preservation when he was drunk, and he hoped the man who'd plucked him off the street wasn't a distant relation of Jack the Ripper's, because he didn't want to die, he just wanted to get rid of some of the pain he'd felt on behalf of the man who'd just found out that his wife had been cheating on him for the past fifteen years. 

"Umph," Spinelli said when he was pushed face first onto a couch. 

Seconds, or maybe hours later, it was hard for him to keep track of time, he was manipulated into sitting up and a glass was thrust into his hand. 

"Drink," he was commanded, and he drank. 

When he realized that he'd been given water, he finished the glass in a single gulp, accidentally spilling some of the contents down his front. His host made an impatient sound, and, before he could even so much as protest, his shirt was being eased up and over his head and another, warmer, bigger shirt was being tugged into place. 

He said, "Thank you,” but there was no answer, just a sigh and then he was being pushed back onto the couch, a pillow tucked beneath his head.

A  blanket that he swore came out of nowhere was draped over him. And before he even realized what was happening, he found himself obeying another single word command, "Sleep."

"Ow." Spinelli clutched at his aching head, and waited until the world stopped spinning at warp speeds before even attempting to sit up. 

He had only vague images of the previous night, no clear memories that could explain why his brain was making a valiant effort to make good an escape from his head. He was on a couch, but it wasn't the couch in his office. This one was much more comfortable and fit his body better. He didn't have to scrunch up, and there weren't any lumps. As far as couches went, Spinelli decided that this one was the cream of the crop. 

He hoped that he didn't end up expelling the contents of his stomach on the couch. Because, not only did his head hurt, but his stomach was also rebelling. It felt like his insides were being twisted and he'd very gladly exchange bodies with someone else if he could. 

He concentrated on breathing through his mouth, and kept his eyes closed, because opening them had been a mistake as it had sent a sharp pain through his skull and made his stomach feel wonky. 

"Ow," he repeated, feeling very badly for himself. 

Obviously he'd been viciously attacked by an angry, and very muscular man. Someone like the Incredible Hulk or the Abominable Snowman. He was clearly dying, and he wished that someone would just hurry up and put him out of his misery.

Light, sudden and blinding, even with his eyes closed, caused his headache to spike, and his stomach to roil. He felt bile, which tasted of whiskey and pine needles, burn the back of   
his throat and jammed his hands over his mouth in an attempt to forestall the inevitable until he could find a bathroom. 

He opened his eyes and attempted to stand, but his legs got tangled up in a blanket, and he fell back to the couch with an, "Oomph." 

His stomach protested the sudden movement, and, with no further warning, the bile swept up his throat and out of his mouth in a violent rush which left him feeling shaky and cold  afterwards. 

His head felt like it was splitting in two, and he sincerely hoped he was dying, because, if he wasn't, this was cruel and unusual punishment and he'd have a thing or two to say to his tormentor, provided that he survived. 

He felt hands on his shoulders, and terror sent him into panic mode which caused his stomach to clench painfully, and he had no control over the spasm that rent through him and caused him to retch once more. 

When the spasms finally subsided, there were tears in his eyes and Spinelli found it difficult to breathe. He felt the man's hands on his back, rubbing circles, which, in other circumstances, might've been comforting, but given that he had no recollection of what had happened the night before, and he had no idea where he was, not to mention who he was with, it made him feel nervous and he was terrified about what might've happened to him. 

For all he knew, he could be in Franco's dubious care right now, or Jax’s. He could've been drugged or poisoned. He could've been raped. Anything could've happened to him. 

"Calm down Spinelli." The words were whispered against his ear. "Breathe." 

Spinelli clutched at the arm of the couch. 

"Let go," he said, but his voice was raspy and barely audible, and he couldn't keep his tears from falling. 

"Please don't hurt me," he begged when the man started to pull him back from the arm of the couch. 

He was too weak to put up much of a fight, in spite of his terror. 

"Spinelli, calm down," the man ordered, "calm down, I'm not going to hurt you." 

The pounding in his head made it difficult for Spinelli to concentrate on what the man was saying, and he struggled to break free.

"Spinelli!" the man's voice was sharp and caused the pain in his head to kick up a notch. "I need to get you to the bathroom to clean you up, please let go of the couch." 

Though the man sounded frustrated, there was a touch of amusement in his voice which made Spinelli angry, but there was little he could do about it because the man was stronger than him. 

"I'm not going to hurt you, I promise," the man said when Spinelli kicked out at him. "Trust me,” he said, and then the man lifted him, as though he weighed nothing, and though Spinelli sputtered and clawed at the man's arms, he didn't let go. 

He tried opening his eyes, but slammed them shut without getting a clear look at the man carrying him because it was too painful for him to keep his eyes open with the bright light. He groaned and almost vomited. 

Spinelli felt himself being carried up a flight of stairs, and panic gripped him once again. 

"Let me go," he said, but his words went unheeded, and before he could so much as muster the breath needed for another protest, he was being sat down on a hard, slick surface, and his shirt was being tugged up and over his head. 

Once again, he was too weak to resist what was happening to him and he wished that he hadn't wimped out on Stone Cold at the gym the other day just because his mentor had hit him a couple of times rather than the bag. It wasn't like Jason had meant to hit him. The man had simply lost control of himself, which was not the norm for him, but everyone was entitled to a mistake every now and again. He should've stuck it out. 

It was quiet, save for the sound of his own ragged breathing which seemed to echo off the walls. Fingers brushed his side, the very place where he'd inadvertently been struck by Jason, and he drew in a breath. 

"How'd this happen?" the question was asked in a growl, the fingers hovered warm against his cool skin. 

Taken aback by the question and the tone with which it was asked, like the man was angry on his behalf, Spinelli answered honestly, "It was just an accident, my friend didn't know his own strength." 

He would've laughed, but for the sharp intake of breath from the man next to him. "I'm sorry," the man said, resting his head against Spinelli's. 

"Stone Cold?" Spinelli questioned, and, in spite of his fear of an increased headache, he opened his eyes. 

Grateful that the lights hadn't been turned on in what he instantly recognised as a bathroom, he met the blue eyes of his mentor and all of his fears abated. 

"Stone Cold," he said, and smiled, but his stomach took that moment to make its unhappiness known at whatever it was that he had done to it, and he bent forward as pain rippled through him. 

He threw up, all over himself and the tub. He was mortified once the pain had subsided and he realized that he'd gotten some of it on Jason. 

"I'm sorry Stone Cold," he said, blushing, and turning away. 

Jason glanced at his shirt with a grimace of disgust, but then said, "Don't worry about it. Think you're done with the ...." he gestured and went through the motions of throwing up. 

Spinelli thought about it. His stomach still felt as though it no longer wanted any part of him. His head was pounding to beat the band. But, knowing that it was Stone Cold who'd been helping him all along had gone a long way toward easing the fear which had been plaguing him since he’d woken up on the foreign couch. 

Though he was embarrassed to admit this, he said, "I don't know."  

“Alright,” Jason said, standing, “here’s what we’re going to do then.” 

The man took his soiled shirt off and flung it onto the floor, and then got into the tub behind Spinelli. Spinelli watched, dumbfounded, as the man stepped out of his jeans, so that he was only clad in boxers. And, then, without a single word, Jason hoisted him up by his armpits. 

“Think you can get your jeans off?” he asked, and his breath was hot against the back of Spinelli’s neck, making him shiver. 

Spinelli nodded, but fumbled with the zipper and button of his jeans. Jason’s hands guided his as he shrugged his jeans off over his hips. He stumbled out of them, but Jason held him steady. 

The flip-flop his stomach made when Jason’s hands rested on his waist had nothing to do with nausea. The way his heart pounded, the sudden dryness of his mouth and the dizziness that swept over him had little to do with the headache he was still attempting to dispel. 

Jason’s touch, his skin warm and soft against his own cold, clammy skin, gave him goose bumps and Spinelli gulped when the man reached over to turn on the water. Jason’s boxer-clad crotch brushed against Spinelli’s ass. Spinelli’s eyes widened when he felt an erection press into him. 

He didn’t know what to do, how to react, or what, if anything, this meant. He no longer felt like throwing up, and though the pain in his head had still not abated, it no longer was front and center. No, front and center in his mind,  was his own growing erection. 

“Relax,” Jason said when Spinelli stiffened. 

No, no, no, he thought frantically,  relaxing is definitely out of the question. 

When Jason shifted, his erection now pressing into the crevasse of his ass, Spinelli stiffened even more, and he grew a brilliant shade of red as his own erection jerked in response. He bit his bottom lip to keep the moan that was building within him at bay, and he placed a hand on either side of the glass walled shower to help hold himself in place. He did not want to be falling backward into Jason. Falling backward, possibly on top of his former roommate would not be a good thing at all.

When Jason moved his hands from his waist, Spinelli nearly groaned and he trembled with the effort it took him to keep himself standing upright. Right now, his body was demanding that he do something about his present state of discomfort. 

“Hold on,” Jason said, and Spinelli closed his eyes. 

Hold on, he thought, hold on. Sure Stone Cold, I can hold on. No problems here. Nope, not a single little problem,  he thought when he felt Jason’s cock twitch.

Jason spilled something on his head, and it took half a second for Spinelli to realize that the cold substance was shampoo.Jason lathered it into his hair. Spinelli couldn’t help but vocalize the moan that built up from the pit of his stomach and demanded to be heard when Stone Cold began to massage the shampoo into his scalp. It felt good and helped to ease his headache, and apparently it also helped with nausea, because right now, throwing up was the farthest thing from his mind.

“Stone Cold,” Spinelli breathed out, his bottom lip was aching from biting down on it so hard, “I...”  What could he say? Stop touching me or I’m going to come all over the shower? Keep touching me, but...lower? 

“Shh,” Jason whispered against his ear, and Spinelli leaned back, letting his soaped up head rest in the crook of Jason’s neck. 

“Just relax,” Jason said as he began to rinse the shampoo out of Spinelli’s hair, massaging the back of his neck and temples as he did so.

Spinelli did as he was told, keeping his hands in place, because, really, as good as all of this felt, and as great as Jason was being, he doubted that his mentor would appreciate a lapful of wet Spinelli. 

“Lean forward,” Jason coaxed, and Spinelli wondered if the whispering was in deference to his headache or if it was due to some other reason, “let me get the rest of the shampoo out of your hair and then we’ll work on getting you clean.”

Clean, now that’s a loaded word, Spinelli thought as he complied, feeling the water, not quite scalding hot, cascade over him, pounding out a soothing rhythm on his aching head. Jason’s fingers worked a magic all their own as he helped rinse out the suds. The erection poking him from behind was no longer an issue as his own, very hard erection was no longer something he could hide by hunching forward. 

Jason’s hands moved from his head and Spinelli let it flop back against his mentor’s chest. He was panting now, and didn’t really care how it looked to Stone Cold. The man was a master of torture, and Spinelli was his willing victim. 

Soap replaced the shampoo in Stone Cold’s hands and Spinelli watched in a numb sort of fascination as Jason built up a lather with the soap, right in front of his face. Jason’s hands moved purposefully, almost artfully, and the resulting lather was thick and rich. 

Spinelli let out a soft moan when Jason placed the soap back in its dish and then knelt behind him. He felt somewhat bereft with the loss of his friend’s erection, but then he had no time to think about such trifling matters when Jason started washing him. 

Spinelli’s hands raced to brace himself against the shower stall when Jason started rubbing his soap-covered hands over him, slow and methodically. He started with Spinelli’s feet, prompting him to lift first one, and then the other, and Spinelli lifted them obediently, like an automaton keyed directly to Jason’s brain. All Jason had to do was think it, and he’d comply.

Jason worked his way up Spinelli’s calves, massaging as he went. Jason paused when he reached the boxers, and then he maneuvered himself around, working his way between Spinelli’s parted thighs  so that he was kneeling in front of him. 

Spinelli almost lost control of himself right then and there. Kneeling in front of him, Jason looked like a demigod with his golden, brown hair slicked back, and water streaming over his muscles in rivulets. His lips were parted in an ‘o’, his hands covered in soap suds, and his eyes, dilated so that they looked almost black, rimmed only with a thin line of azure. 

Spinelli didn’t protest when Jason’s hands reached for his boxers. He simply let them fall to the floor of the shower, he didn’t even wonder how Jason had managed to take his own off without him noticing until now - the man’s rather impressive dick was well worth noticing. And when his mentor took his dick into his hand, Spinelli thought that all he was going to do was wash it, not rub his thumb over the head and gently toy with the balls. 

When Jason moved closer and snaked his other hand underneath his ass, causing his lips to brush up against Spinelli’s crotch in the process, Spinelli’s breath caught in his chest. Though it felt a little different when Jason breached him with a finger, it didn’t make him feel squeamish. It had quite the opposite effect and he groaned. 

Jason faltered for a moment, his eyes beseeching Spinelli for permission, and, incapable of speech, Spinelli nodded. Jason removed his hand from Spinelli’s dick, and he placed his lips over the head, giving it a single lick and then sucking. This is not at all what Spinelli had been anticipating. 

Jason’s one hand seemed dedicated to finger fucking Spinelli, stretching him from one to two to three fingers, and his other hand was wrapped around his own erection, slowly pulling and rubbing at it. Spinelli couldn’t help but watch as Jason sucked and licked him, taking his dick in his mouth and encouraging Spinelli to move his hips. He marveled at how Jason’s eyes darkened and sparked with lust. 

Jason’s lips stretched tight around him and Spinelli moved his hands from the shower walls to grasp Jason’s hair as he bucked into his mouth. The water made the shower slick, but his feet held, and somehow he managed to remain upright, though his knees were threatening to buckle and he really couldn’t breathe and this wasn’t a dream. Jason’s fingers were pulsing inside of him, hitting something that made him see sparks and took his headache away completely. Spinelli’s hips were jerking forward and backward in a rhythm as old as time. 

Jason moaned, and the vibrations caused Spinelli to see white. He stopped breathing, and tried to warn Jason before he came inside of his friend’s mouth, but Jason didn’t release him, and he couldn’t stop and he was coming, spilling into Jason’s mouth. Jason’s own orgasm caused them both to shudder as he came, withdrawing his fingers from Spinelli’s ass, and painting them both with hot, salty cum. 

Spinelli stood there, seeing nothing, his fingers entwined in Jason’s hair, for what felt like an eternity. He felt like a new man. And though his ass was aching, and he was covered in Jason’s cum, he felt clean and whole. 

“Stone Cold,” he said, releasing Jason’s hair and pulling him to stand. 

His eyes searched his mentor’s, looking for some indication that this had been a joke or that maybe it hadn’t happened at all and he’d dreamed it. But Jason’s eyes reflected nothing but satisfaction, and Spinelli could no longer think when the man pushed him up against the back wall of the shower, nailing him to it with his body and kissed him, tongue going deep into the recesses of his mouth so that he felt it down to the tips of his fingers and the soles of his feet. 

“Spinelli,” Jason spoke into his mouth, and then pulled back, giving them room to breathe, “stay?”

Instead of answering with words, Spinelli decided to take a page out of Stone Cold’s book, and he answered the man with a kiss, tugging at the man’s bottom lip with his teeth, and letting his fingers trail down Jason’s sides. Judging by the soft moan and the way Jason’s toes curled, Spinelli thought that he did a pretty damn good job of communicating his willingness to stay.


End file.
